Wander
by gr8rockstarrox
Summary: Sometimes, the path to true love twists, turns, and diverges, but not all those who wander are lost. [A set of fairly independent oneshots set in the Inevitable universe; occasionally features femHarry.] Contains Ginny/Daphne, Lily Luna, the Longbottom's house-elf, Dorcas/Lily, and more. [Ch. 6. won an award.]
1. Unrequited

**Title:** Unrequited

 **Summary:** Letting go of the cliff is easier when there's someone waiting to catch you.

 **Pairings:** Ginny/Daphne; Charlie/fem!Harry [only mentioned]

 **Rating:** T

 **Written for:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round One (More details at the end.)

 **Beta-ed by:** desertredwolf and magrud (Thank you for putting up with my last minute nagging!)

 **Warnings:** Fem!Harry. Our dearest Potter is a girl, woman... You get it. And femslash. This is set in the Inevitable universe, but can be read as a standalone.

 **Disclaimer:** JKR is a genius, let's bow down to her.

* * *

.

 **Unrequited**

 _(Or the one where Ginny decides to move on.)_

.

* * *

The pub's emptying out, and Ginny knows she should be heading home. She should have left some three hours back — Mum had asked her to be at the Burrow by eight for the rehearsal dinner — and yet, she's still here, drowning her sorrows in gin and tonic.

"Weasley, what are you doing here?" comes an inquisitive voice, and Ginny tries to hold a groan back. She fails miserably.

"Wow, I'm really chuffed to see you too, thanks for that greeting," Daphne continues, when that groan is the only response she gets. She proceeds to sit on the stool right next to Ginny's.

"I'll have whatever the lady's having," she says, signalling to the barkeep, before turning herself to face Ginny. Her knees bump against Ginny's thighs, and it feels gloriously warm.

Ginny chooses to ignore that tingling.

"You know you can talk to me, right? I don't have a dicto-quill right now, everything you say is off the record," she says a few moments later, as though that's supposed to comfort Ginny.

The perky blonde remains quiet for the next twenty minutes or so, much to Ginny's relief. Daphne sips at her drink demurely, the epitome of Pureblood etiquette, while Ginny sloppily slams down her glass for the fifth time and beckons for a refill.

"Are you sure you want to get this drunk in public, love?" she asks, as if she cares, and Ginny can't stand that faux concern.

"Don't call me _love_ ," she spits out, and watches as Daphne narrows her eyes. Huffing, she continues, "I have every right to get drunk if I want to. The season's over and Gwenog can't do shit."

Despite some of the words sounding slurred, Ginny's pretty sure the vitriol has been conveyed clearly. The last person she wants to spend tonight with is the pesky sports reporter of _Witch Weekly_.

"You might be having a rotten day, but that doesn't allow you to be nasty to me," Daphne says calmly, as if she's dealing with a toddler who's throwing a tantrum.

Ginny doesn't trust that tone; she's been a public figure long enough to know that even a few careless words to a reporter could effectively ruin a person's career.

She focuses instead on her own breathing, briefly wondering if one could 'bad-trip' on excess alcohol, and tries to ride the buzz. It's pointless though, because instead of numbing out the bitterness, her emotions feel razor sharp. She thinks she might be sick. Nope, she's _definitely_ going to be sick.

In her hurry to get to the loo, she knocks over the stool she'd been sitting on, and trips on her own robes in the process. Miraculously, before her face can meet the floor, warm hands holds her up firmly, and she leans into the touch, even if it's that of Daphne's.

It feels reassuring, on this lonely night.

So when Daphne asks if she needs help walking, she says yes.

* * *

x

* * *

Ginny doesn't quite know how they've ended up here, sitting on a dingy wooden bench, eating fish and chips from some all-night place by the Thames. Summer is setting in, and the breeze which blows from over the river is warm.

The lack of conversation is nice, she thinks. If today had been a practice day, she'd have been with her fellow Harpies right now, having loud and raucous fun. If today had been a normal, off-season day, she'd have been spending her time either with Luna and Neville, or her family, or the guys, or Hyacinth.

 _Hyacinth._

Ginny's heart clenches, as she thinks of the raven-haired, green-eyed witch who's been the object of her affections from even before she realised she fancied girls. She's the one person, the only person, in fact, for whom Ginny would do anything.

And she's the very same person who is all set to marry Ginny's brother tomorrow.

"What do you want to do next?"

Ginny startles out of her angst ridden thoughts and turns to find Daphne looking at her patiently, expectantly.

"Er, what?"

Ginny finds that the greasy food in her system's made her a tad bit more sober, and with that, her recurring concern that this could all be a ruse to write an exposé makes itself present again.

"Or if you don't want to do anything, that's fine too?" Daphne says, her statement sounding question-like.

Deciding to grab the bull by its horns, Ginny looks the taller female square in the eye and asks authoritatively, "Why are you here? What are you getting out of this?"

"Oh, Merlin," Daphne mutters, before speaking up louder. "You looked miserable, sitting all alone, and I thought if I looked like that, I'd like someone to cheer me up, all right? That's what I'm trying to do, or distract you, at the least."

"Okay, but what are _you_ getting out of this?" Ginny repeats her earlier question, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to read the other witch's body language and figure out her true intentions.

"You know you're being very Slytherin now, right?" Daphne says, jovially, like she's not a right bitch when it comes to tarnishing reputations.

"And _you're_ acting like a Hufflepuff, which I _know_ you're not. I don't trust you."

"I'm not claiming to be one, but the thing is, we Slytherins can be compassionate too, you know? We're not just made of ambition, steel and propriety. We're human too, and I know what it's like when the person you've fancied forever doesn't look at you that way. It's not fun, being invisible."

Ginny's blood freezes.

How does Daphne know?

 _How the fuck does Daphne Greengrass know?_

The only people she's ever confided in are Hermione and Luna. Sure, the world knows she's bent and all that, but that it's always been Hyacinth for her? That's a closely guarded secret which Ginny's sure the wizarding population would love to eat up.

"How do you know?" she asks, her voice croaking. The paper which the meal had been wrapped in is crushed within her fist, and belatedly, she notices she's getting grease onto her palm. She spots a bin nearby, and her Chaser instincts kick in — the greasy paper ball lands perfectly inside the metal container.

When she turns back, the blonde looks uncomfortable, even as she replies, "I just do. I have brilliant skills of deduction and observation; that's what makes me good at my job."

Ginny forces breaths through her nose, and continues, "So is this blackmail? Or a warning that tomorrow, when I wake up, it'll be splashed across the Witch Weekly wedding special?"

"I've quit my job at Witch Weekly; resigned today, actually."

Daphne looks at her earnestly as she says that, and Ginny feels the slightest of misgivings.

"Oh?"

"I do have one last article to write, though. So I'll be there at the wedding."

"You're a sports reporter, not a society pages writer," Ginny says, bemused.

" _Celebrity_ sports-persons, and mostly about their private lives; the editors didn't really like sports stats being included in a magazine that's supposed to cater to people who like glitz and glam."

The other witch says this with a sigh, and then casually vanishes the remnants of her meal with her wand, as if the Statute is not a real thing. But Ginny refuses to be distracted.

"You're going to be there at the wedding tomorrow, then?"

"Well, technically today, but yeah, I'll be there," she replies, nodding sagely. "Krum's going to be attending, and his PR team invited Witch Weekly to do the interview and photoshoot against the backdrop of the wedding."

"And what about your blackmail?"

"For fuck's sake, there's no blackmail, Weasley. I'm not always a nice person, but I have my moments too—"

It feels strange to hear Daphne cuss, and it seems wrong for those words to be coming out of a mouth like that. They're pale pink and lush, and Ginny thinks kissing them would be interesting. It's not that she wants to snog _Daphne_ ; it's just that she wouldn't mind kissing _those lips_.

"— I'm good company, you'll see. So see you in a few hours?"

Thanks to her preoccupation with the other witch's lips, she finds that she's missed out on most of whatever it was Daphne was saying. And she's now looking at Ginny expectantly, as if waiting for a response.

So she nods, and that seems to be an acceptable reply, because Daphne squeezes Ginny's shoulder briefly, and then Disapparates without even standing up.

An impressive skill, she notes.

Staring out into the twinkling lights in the distance, Ginny decides that it's probably high time she headed home.

* * *

x

* * *

Ten hours later, Ginny stands in the living room of the Burrow, nervously pressing her hands against the front of the satiny pale green dress, trying to remove any creases. The rest of the bridal party is upstairs, adding last minute touches to the Hyacinth hair and make-up — apparently, Ginny's the only one who thinks she's perfect the way she is.

Masochism, thy name is Ginny Weasley, she thinks wryly, just as the front door opens with a thud. Turning around, she sees that it's Daphne Greengrass, dressed in violet formal robes.

In the light of day, Ginny can't understand why she'd spent time with the vicious reporter in the first place. She'd even liked how peaceful it had been — and Ginny can't fathom why her drunk self would be more forgiving of Daphne than her sober self. This was the woman who'd ruined Oliver Wood's marriage.

"I should have realised that you'd be a bridesmaid," she says, and maybe she sees the surprise on Ginny's face, because she continues. "You have a bouquet of flowers with your name on it, and you're wearing the same dress that Granger is wearing."

Looking over to where Daphne had pointed, Ginny finds that it's the flower table, filled with bouquets and baskets, with identifying name cards.

"You're sharp," she says, grudgingly appreciative of Daphne's powers of observation.

"I need to be," Daphne replies, almost curtly, her eyes not meeting Ginny's.

There's a pause which lingers too long to not be awkward, and Ginny wracks her brain for something to talk about.

"Uhh, how was the Krum interview? What'd he have to say?"

"Just finished it, actually. And I still don't know why he wanted the interview here. I think he wanted to impress someone."

"I think I know who it might be," Ginny replies without thinking, before realising that Daphne's eyebrows have quirked up. "I'm not telling you," she warns.

Daphne smiles crookedly, before saying, "I'm not a Witch Weekly reporter anymore, so don't worry, I'm not going to pester you for Weasley family details."

Ginny gets the oddest feeling that Daphne knows who it is, and that she's merely humouring her. She loses that train of thought though, when Daphne stops smirking and adopts a serious look.

"I should be leaving now."

"You're not staying?"

"Angelina Johnson's promised to deliver me home in pieces if I'm not out by eleven sharp, and as much as I want to gatecrash the wedding of the Girl-Who-Conquered, I don't want to be dismembered for cheap thrills," she says, looking distractedly away.

Ginny knows that it's probably not an idle threat — Daphne had ruined the friendship between Angelina and Katie, pretty much irreparably, through that scathing quill of hers, and Angie was still baying for Daphne's blood.

Taking in a deep breath, Daphne looks her in the eyes and continues, "I just came here to tell you this. You are strong; you're a survivor."

Ginny's struck by how blue Daphne's eyes are. It's not a shade to be found in the Weasley family. It's a deep blue, with flecks of brown, and it's mesmerising.

"How do you know?" Ginny asks, her voice sounding fragile to her own ears.

"I know because I was there during the war, and I saw how brave you were. You stood up to the Carrows for what you believed in, and you didn't flinch at what could have been death. You didn't lose hope then; you shouldn't lose hope now.

"I'm not going to lie. The next few months are going to be shitty. Watching the one you want marry someone else is brutal. The thing is, life doesn't always give you what you want, and it takes great courage to move on from desires that are so deeply set that they've become a part of who you are.

"You're incredibly brave, Ginevra, and I have faith that someday, you'll be able to move on. You just need to have that faith in yourself."

Ginny doesn't know how, but somehow of their own volition, tears have pooled in her eyes, effectively blurring her vision.

"That wizard you said fancied forever? D-did you get over him?"

"Not a wizard, love. I'm not sure I if I ever got over her, I'm absolutely certain I still love her. But once you accept that things are the way they are for a reason, you do move on. Loving someone from afar isn't so bad. You learn that there's more than just one road to happiness."

"Thank you," Ginny whispers, and Daphne treats her to a sad little smile.

"I'd better go, I rather like all my organs just the way they are," she says. As she makes to leave, she takes something white out of her pocket, and presses it against Ginny's hand. Compared to Daphne's cool skin, her own feels clammy.

"Owl me when you're ready to move on, okay?" she says, before striding out gracefully.

A brief glance tells Ginny that the card is blank, but Daphne is gone before she can tell her that.

Ginny makes her way to the sofa and collapses upon it, creasing the dress be damned.

* * *

x

* * *

Alone again, Ginny's thoughts begin to spiral, the way they've been wont to do since she found out that Cinthy and Charlie were together. When those two had just been dating, she'd held on to the hope that maybe it wouldn't last, that maybe Hyacinth would wake up one day and realise she was madly in love with Ginny instead. But then they'd announced their engagement, and that was when Ginny had started perpetually feeling like she was being buried alive.

Sure, Daphne's words had been kind, inspiring even, but it doesn't hurt less just because she knows it will hurt.

Looking down at her hand, Ginny finds that the card, though stiff, is now creased at the edges, thanks to her using it like a stress ball. As she stares at it, words start forming, and for a moment, all she can think of is Riddle's diary. But the panic passes when she realises that the printed calligraphy is vastly different to Riddle's.

The elegant script reads, _'Daphne Greengrass, Private Investigator.'_

A snort of laughter escapes out of Ginny before she can help it.

Flipping the card, she notes that there's a Vertic Alley address given. On the spur of the moment, Ginny decides that she'd like to be friends with Daphne Greengrass once again. Maybe when all of this is done and over with, she'll send the other witch a letter.

She sets the card down on the coffee table and is in the process of performing a sticky-charm, when an exuberant shout comes from the end of the staircase.

"Ginny!"

"Yes, darling?" she says, looking up, as Teddy changes the colour of his hair to match hers .

"Aunt Molly told me to tell you to come upstairs to the girls' room _immeeeediately_ ," he announces, his nose wrinkling in disgust when he says 'girls' room'.

"All righty, then," she says, watching in amusement as he starts marching up the stairs with his head held high. He pauses at the last stair and turns to glare at her, as if to ask her why she isn't right behind him yet.

Standing up, she smoothes her dress one more time, before making her way upstairs.

It's time to face the start of her future.

Maybe it's time to try moving on.

* * *

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* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round One

 **Word Count:** 2688 (Not including the title, meta info, and my ramblings)

 **Prompt:** Write a pairing you've never written before.

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United

* * *

 **AN:** In true Inevitable style, this story would be incomplete without a random list:

1\. The modern stress ball as we know it was invented in 1988 by Alex Carswell. (I wonder what the history of a fidget spinner is.)

2\. This is the first time I've written femslash, I hope I did it justice.

3\. Ginny and Daphne are together in Inevitable – it's there if you squint your eyes and tilt your head.

4\. Oooh, a little backstory: Yes, Ginny and Daphne _used_ to be friends after a fashion. Maybe that'll be a future one-shot, hmm?

6\. I skipped #5, did you notice?

7\. Thank you Dez, for introducing me to this lovely pair, and thank you Dessie, for being a lovely captain. :D

* * *

Reviews are love!

(No, seriously, leave me reviews/prompts/ideas/anything and you'll get the femHarry/Draco you probably came here looking for.)


	2. Unprivileged

**Title:** Unprivileged

 **Summary:** A foray into one of the secret chambers in her grandparents' manor teaches Lily the value of privilege.

 **Characters:** Lily Potter-Malfoy, daughter of Hyacinth Potter and Draco Malfoy; Penelope Malfoy (OC)

 **Year:** 2017

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Two (Details at the end.)

 **Beta-ed by:** JBrocks917 (Thank you!)

 **Disclaimer:** JKR owns HP&co. "Steles" are borrowed from Cassandra Clare, and the Old Gods from GRRM.

 **Note:** I've tried to stay as true to Victorian English as I could. There might be inaccuracies and anachronistic language, but I've tried my level best. I've included a vocabulary key at the bottom. I've stayed true to the meanings of the runes mentioned. Lily's twelve in this fic; I hope her reactions are age-appropriate. Also, this features a genderbent Harry Potter, i.e., femHarry. And finally, steles are writing instruments that are used to draw runes.

* * *

.

 **Unprivileged**

 _(Or the one where Lily grows up.)_

.

* * *

Lily knows that the room she's just entered right now is probably off limits—her dad has always vehemently opposed the exploration of Malfoy Manor—but then again, he shouldn't have left her here in the first place. It isn't fair, in her opinion, that she has to be babysat by Grandma Cissy, while her stupid brother gets to spend the day with his Quidditch role model.

Pushing aside thoughts of how her brother definitely won Quidditch Weekly's write-in quiz competition by fluke, Lily looks around the chamber she's stumbled upon by accident. It's lit up by strange runes that are hewn onto the stone walls, their cold blue light a little eerie.

Smack in the centre of the cavernous room sits what seems to be a miniature tree, about three feet high, made of white stone. The leaves look real. They even _sound_ real. If she strains her ears, Lily thinks she can hear a faint rustling, in a conspicuously absent breeze.

Apart from that weird sculpture, the room is bare, and it's with misgiving that Lily notes, when she turns around, that the door through which she'd entered has slid back into place. She's effectively trapped in this circular room, and Lily feels she can't breathe anymore.

She feels around the wall in an attempt to find something akin to a door jamb, but her hands are only met with smooth stone. She finds that the thought of dying in this unknown chamber isn't very comforting—her parents might never recover her body in their lifetimes. She shouldn't have ventured into this without her wand, she realises belatedly.

Trying to draw inspiration from the fact that her mother had survived a battle with a Basilisk when she was Lily's age, Lily turns back to face the room. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Lily walks towards the tree slowly. It's not like she has any choice; it's literally the only thing in the room, and maybe if she presses the correct leaf or something, she might even be able to get out.

As she draws closer, the rustling becomes louder, and maybe if she were anyone else, she might have shrieked in terror and run away. But she's more than just a Malfoy; she's a Potter too, and courage runs in her veins. Sure, she was Sorted into Slytherin, but that doesn't mean she can't be brave. At least, that's what she tells herself, as she comes to a stop right in front of the stone sculpture.

She can't hear the false rustling sound anymore; it's quiet like Professor Chang's Transfiguration classes. The silence is more nerve-wracking than the previously heard rustling.

Just as she tries to figure out what she is to do next, the tree lights up, and the branches start moving to the side. The trunk grows further, and sitting atop it is a stone bowl, its outer side etched with runes intricately. A distant part of her mind notes that the tree, its leaves, the bowl—they're all made of ivory, and they're actually yellowed with age. Grandma would be proud of her eye for detail, she thinks, as she peers into the bowl.

Inside, a mercurious liquid splashes around with a life of its own, and Lily can see her own distorted reflection on the rippling surface. One of her eyes looks bigger than the other, and that's the last coherent thought Lily has, before she finds herself falling face first into a ever-growing pool of silver.

* * *

x

* * *

When Lily regains her balance, she finds herself standing in an ornately decorated room, very similar to her own at Grandma's, though she doesn't have quite as much gold in her furniture trimmings. She rubs her eyes to clear her vision—it feels like she's looking through the Valencia filter that Rose had introduced her to last week.

"If you are watching this, it means two things. Firstly, I have passed on to a better life, and secondly, you are a daughter of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy."

Lily whirls around in shock, and finds a tall woman sitting in front of a vanity very similar to Lily's own, powdering her nose, while two house-elves stand on stools behind her, fixing her hair.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't know how I got here, promise," Lily squeaks, but the woman doesn't pay her any attention.

"You might be confused as to why you're here; fret not, I am not an enemy. I am Lady Penelope Malfoy, and you have earned the right to carry forth my legacy."

"W-What?" Lily stutters, but the woman pays her no attention.

Setting down the rag she was brushing her nose with, the tall brunette claps her hands, and the two house-elves disappear.

"What I am to share with you will help secure your future. Use this as your leverage to stand your place in this house; just because you are born a member of the fairer sex doesn't mean you should be sold to another house as a broodmare is."

Lily looks around for a way out, and doesn't bother answering, when Penelope Malfoy continues, "I shall now take you through my life, and if you're bright enough, you may learn how to survive."

The ground slips from beneath Lily's feet, and she finds herself tumbling into a vortex of colours.

* * *

x

* * *

A young girl sits in the corner of a darkened room and continues to sob her heart out, her face buried in her hands, as a much older woman enters with a tray of biscuits and clucks her tongue sympathetically.

"It's been a month, Penny; you should be taking care of the household and your brother. Merlin knows your father is weak and swayed easily. You are not behaving as must a lady of a house as noble as ours."

The young girl looks up and stares blankly at the older woman, and Lily's taken aback to see that it's a much younger Penelope Malfoy, not more than ten, at most.

"Why did the pox take her away, Nana?" asks the girl, her voice thick, and the older woman sets down the tray on the mantelpiece, sighing.

"Mysterious are the ways of the Old Gods; it isn't your place to question them. I believe my good-daughter was taken away for a greater purpose; you believe that of your mother. She's been summoned for greater things, she lives elsewhere now," lectures the woman, not unkindly.

"How can she live elsewhere when _I_ am here? When Brother needs her as much as I, how could she have left us for a greater purpose?" asks the girl, and Lily finds it deeply unsettling. It's not like she can do anything to comfort the girl, though—the other occupants of the room had seemingly not noticed her attempts to catch their attention, and when Lily'd tried nipping a biscuit from the tray, her hand had passed through it, as if she was a ghost.

Penelope's grandmother sighs once more, and sits down on the stiff looking chair, looking pensive for a moment.

"You might not see your mother living and breathing as you are, around you, Penny. But she isn't gone as you fear; she will always be with you. She lives on, in your memories, inside you. She's always with you, in here," says the old woman, tapping her own greying temples.

There's a moment of silence, and Lily stays as still as possible, though she knows they can't hear her. The grandfather clock in the corner chimes thrice, signifying the hour.

The older woman stands up, and with a wave of her hand, pushes the curtains apart. The afternoon sunlight filters through, and Penelope Malfoy flinches.

"You have moped around enough, Penelope. The Malfoy family needs you to be an exemplary daughter. Tomorrow, at dawn, I shall start your lessons on managing the house. Shed all the tears you want now, for I do not like sniffling students."

Before Lily can even gather her thoughts about how brusque and insensitive the woman had been, the scene disappears in mist and vapour, and she's back in the Valencia-Filter-Room.

Penelope stands against the window, looking out, with her back to Lily. Turning her face, such that Lily can see her side-profile, she speaks, "That is what started me on my laborious path. I needed a way to sieve through my memories, see what I wanted to remember. With every passing year, my mother's handsome face became more distant. I couldn't remember her finer features, but I could still remember how she made me feel. My brother was but a babe when she passed, and wasn't as blessed as I to have more than a name to associate to her likeness Father had commissioned.

"The year now is 1857, and I will not presume to know from whence you are, but I do wonder if witches have the right to possess a wand. I wonder…" she trails off, deep in thought, and Lily swallows loudly.

Lily can't believe that witches hadn't been allowed wands— _why did Professor Binns never talk about this?_

"Where was I? Yes, I was talking about my legacy, wasn't I? Have you ever asked yourself what remains of you when you're gone? The people who knew you shall remember you fondly, but once they too are gone, who will remember you? You'll be forgotten, washed away by the sands of time. And that's why it becomes so important to have something which ties you to this mortal earth long after you've been interred. Think about what you'll leave behind."

The scene starts disappearing, and Lily feels like she's grabbed an active Portkey. This time though, she's prepared.

* * *

x

* * *

Lily finds herself standing in a workspace not very different from Grandma's art studio, the only difference being the lack of sunlight streaming in. Maybe Penelope Malfoy doesn't like sunlight, she thinks.

" _Wunjo_ for joy," mutters a hoarse voice, and Lily squints to make out the lean figure of Penelope Malfoy hunched forward, a stone bowl in her hands, a stele of silver gripped tightly in her fist, as she inscribes something in the shape of a 'P'. The rune glows in the dark, before the stone shatters with a deafening noise.

Cursing, Penelope scribbles something into a scrap of parchment with a quill, muttering under her breath, "Maybe an _Eihwaz_ for stability first, next time."

She proceeds to summon her stele from where it had fallen onto the floor during the earlier explosion, and cleans the tip carefully with a piece of muslin cloth, looking at the silver implement tenderly, the way Lily's mother often looks at her old Firebolt.

Penelope's experiment with the runes continues, often with loud and explosive results, and Lily grows tired of watching it. It's been about thirteen hours, and Lily wants to go back so that she can eat lunch. Resignedly, she paces about, as the other witch continues to work diligently.

Penelope's added about twenty runes onto the current bowl, when the door is thrown open.

Both Lily and Penelope jump back in tandem, as a tall man with silvery white hair walks in, a scowl on his face.

"You're still doing this? I warned you when I caught you a sennight ago. Drop this rubbish about seeing your mother again! Unless you indulge in necromancy, you will not bring Laura back, child."

Penelope stands up to her full height, and speaks earnestly, "I think it will work this time, Papa! All we need to do is remember Mama, and she'll appear to us. Trust me, I think I've chosen the correct potions and runes this time, please!"

"Demonstrate," he says coldly, and Penelope scrambles around to clear her workstation. Once ready, she pours a transparent liquid into the bowl from a jug, and proceeds to press her fingers against her cheeks, pressing harder and harder, till silvery teardrops start falling into the carefully placed bowl.

With a hiss, smoke starts rising from the bowl, as Penelope moves backwards. Penelope's father watches keenly, as the apparition of a dark haired woman appears. She seems to be holding a baby, wrapped up in pristine white linen, and she smiles tiredly.

"Would you like to meet your brother, Penny?" she asks, before disappearing into nothing.

The man's earlier look of fury has been replaced by one of abject fear, and his face looks ashen.

"Follow me to my study," he orders, before striding out, but Lily isn't entirely sure Penelope heard him, for the other witch stands in the same spot, a look of amazement and wonderment evident on her face.

Lily finds that she can't help the broad smile that's stretching across her own face.

* * *

x

* * *

When the scene shifts and reforms, Lily expects to find herself in the Valencia-Filter-Room once more. It's with mild disappointment that she notes that she's in her grandfather's study.

Penelope's father sits behind the desk, stoic in expression, while Penelope thrums with ire.

"You said you would let me study. You said I would not have to marry Gaunt. Why are you doing this?" she shrieks, as her father looks at her with contempt.

"I've let you play around enough with your runes and your potions. You are five and twenty of age; practically a maid. It's time you performed your duty to your house. The Gaunts are an acceptable match, and they have promised—"

"You forbade me from attending Hogwarts because they allowed filth like the Gaunts!"

"This is different, Penelope. This is about an alliance for greater power in the Wizengamot. I do not expect your feminine mind to understand the finer intricacies of politics—"

"I am cleverer than that, Papa! I have single-handedly created two score Memory Sieves, which is more than what those loutish lords can claim they have done in their lifetimes!"

"Oh yes, regarding that—I have found suitable buyers for your Sieves. They, of course, believe that it is your brother who has created them, and you shall not try and claim credit for it."

Lily feels sick, as she watches Penelope's mouth fall open.

"I worked hard for that, Papa. It is my work, what I've made out of love for Mama. You can't take that away from me."

"And I won't, Penny. But naming you the creator? The inventor? The rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight would laugh at us; you'd bring shame upon the Malfoy name. Is that what you want?"

"But Adrian didn't spend years learning and experimenting, Papa. _I_ did. And I deserve—"

Penelope's father stands up, his face venomous, and rather inconveniently, Lily's vision goes black.

* * *

x

* * *

When Lily opens her eyes, she's back in the Valencia-Filter-Room. Penelope sits by the fireplace, throwing journals and scrolls of parchment into the fire.

"I apologise, daughter. I lied. My Sieves are not my legacy. They are meant to be that of my brother, Adrian's. That memory I showed you does not end well for me, because eventually, I end up here. The Gaunts will arrive shortly, and I am to be ready to receive them. Lord Gaunt hopes to find a young bride to bend to his will, but there's something Papa and Lord Gaunt did not account for. I am spiteful."

She pauses to open a bunch of vials wandlessly, before pouring them all into the fire. The flames turn green, and then purple, and it makes for a fascinating display. Lily feels terrible, though.

"Papa thinks I've taught Adrian everything I know about the Sieves. But as much as I love my brother, I still believe my work should either be accredited to me, or be forgotten. That's why I'm throwing away all my research and findings. And what Adrian's learnt will not help him; I've omitted vital pieces of knowledge which he shall be hard pressed to recover or discover on his own."

Standing up regally, Penelope sets the empty chest down and smirks right at Lily, as though she can see her, unnerving Lily in the process. The older witch begins to pace the room.

"I have but two things left to do. I have already converted Nana's Prayer Chamber into the future resting place of my memories, and now I shall have only to extract this memory and sew it into the others with my stele. Once that is completed, I shall etch _Ingwaz_ upon myself.

" _Ingwaz_ , if you do not know, is the rune for forgetting, and living in the present. In essence, I shall be wiping away all my former memories, making myself worthless to my father and Lord Gaunt."

Penelope pauses in her pacing, and sighs tiredly, before going to stand by the window as she had been, earlier.

"I am running out of time, I need to finish what I started. Do not worry for me, daughter. I have faith that I will find liberation outside the walls of this restrictive society. My real legacy is the knowledge I leave behind for you, daughter of House Malfoy. When you leave my side, you shall find a letter, listing every step you will need to take to create a Sieve. I hope my knowledge saves you in a way it hasn't saved me.

"Fare thee well, daughter," she says solemnly, and though Lily knows the other Malfoy can't hear her, she replies in kind, her throat clogged with some unnamed emotion.

"Good luck, Penny. I hope you get away from your dad all right."

At that moment, Lily decides that once she's back, she'll dig up all the history books she can find, just to learn what finally happened to Penelope.

There's a gentle tug at Lily's navel, and this time, she closes her eyes and just lets go.

* * *

x

* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Two

 **Word Count:** 2947 (According to Google docs)

 **Prompt:** Write about the invention of a magical object, potion, or other creation. (I've chosen the Pensieve.)

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United

* * *

 **Vocabulary Key:**

Broodmare: A mare used for breeding; women were often treated as such in the 17th and 18th centuries.

Handsome: A word used to describe a well built woman, often signifying greater and superior "breeding". The word beautiful referred to a frail and delicate disposition, while handsome referred to a well-groomed member of upper society.

Good-daughter: Daughter-in-law

Likeness: A portrait or painting made of a person, usually made after they die (or as they're dying). Some families created likenesses when a new heir took up his position as the Earl or Viscount.

Sennight: One week

* * *

 **End note:** Penny's Sieve, PennysSieve, Pensieve, geddit? xD

Seriously though, there is something I should mention. This story was inspired by the Ann Mozart conspiracy theory—Mozart (the one we've heard of) supposedly passed off some of his sister's work as his own at their father's behest. Maria Ann Mozart was apparently a musician far superior to Wolfgang.

I'd love to hear your thoughts; do leave a review!


	3. Unfortunate

**Title:** Unfortunate

 **Summary:** Hogwarts was home, and it was time they protected her.

 **Characters:** Alecto Carrow, Amycus Carrow, assorted Hogwarts staff members, and Peeves

 **Rating:** T

 **Written for:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Three (More details at the end.)

 **Beta-ed by:** June

 **Warnings:** Lots of slang and cuss words, hence the T rating. Also, I've mentioned two torture devices called Brazen Bull and the "rack" in the passing. Do not Google them if you're squeamish.

 **Disclaimer:** JKR is a genius, let's bow down to her.

* * *

.

 **Unfortunate**

 _(Or the one where Alecto has a really bad day.)_

.

* * *

Alecto Carrow usually wakes up to the fearful voice of her house-elf trying to do its job, which is why she'd never anticipated being woken up the way that she is right now—to the sound of trumpeting elephants.

Pulling her wand out from under her pillow by instinct, she jumps out of her bed, wildly searching for where the sound is emanating from. As the fog of sleep clears out from her senses, she realises that the dreadful sound is coming from the Muggle grandfather clock in the corner—the very same clock that she'd been unable to remove from its place when she'd first taken up employment as Hogwarts' Muggle Studies teacher.

Inching towards the corner where the instrument stands, her heart beating uncontrollably, she casts a Lumos to survey the scene—if it's one of those snot-faced students being up to no good, she swears she'll make them spend an hour in her Brazen Bull—and much to her disappointment, she finds that there's no brat to be found. Flicking her wand upward towards the face of the clock, she notes with horror that it's an unholy half-four in the morning.

Irritated, she casts a _Reducto_ at the clock, but of course, the clock remains impervious to magic, just like it had when she and Amycus had tried their level best to get rid of it a few months back. A while later, when screaming a few more explosive spells does not do the trick, Alecto resorts to a _Silencio_ , just so she can try to get back to sleep.

But by then, her head is pounding, and the sound of trumpeting elephants is embedded onto her mind like a worm in an apple.

* * *

x

* * *

This time when Alecto wakes up, it's to cold water being poured onto her face by her irate twin.

"What the–"

"Get up, you lousy lump. Your useless house-elf has been trying to wake you up for the past two hours," says Amycus, not lowering his wand.

She makes an attempt to push the wand and its stream of water out of her face, but Amycus is relentless, and only stops when she's fully out of her bed, shaking her wet clothes.

"You got my Hippogriff-feather blanket wet," she complains, but her brother merely sneers at her.

"You're a Deputy Headmistress. You don't want the Dark Lord thinking you're skiving off your duties, do you? If Snape reports this–"

"Calm your Thestrals, it's only a Saturday," she tells him snootily, but he growls in response.

"Today's the day the rats are going home for Yule. You're supposed to be escorting them to Hogsmeade."

" _Oh_. But get this, that dratted clock woke me up at four, sounding like an elephant of all things, and I couldn't sleep for an hour after that because–"

"They'll be leaving in ten minutes, you should really get dressed. You look like a hag," Amycus continues, as if he doesn't care.

When she glares at him, he shrugs his shoulders and says, "At least you missed breakfast. Everything had too much salt, even the damn croissants. And that Gryffindor bitch had the nerve to tell me it was probably my taste buds, because none of them found it salty. If Snape hadn't threatened me–"

"I don't care about your breakfast; get out of my room," she hisses, and Amycus hisses back in similar fashion.

"Bloody shrew," he mutters as he steps out of her private chambers.

"Poxy codger," she calls out in return, but Amycus has closed the door—or more precisely, banged the door shut—by then.

* * *

x

* * *

Interacting with the students is a nightmare as always, but the prospect of opportunity for torture makes it tolerable. It's so much fun, how their pasty faces become pale with fear, every time she mentions her beloved _rack_ or her Brazen Bull. And threatening to take away their Hogwarts Express tickets as they stand in line to occupy the carriages outside is just an added bonus. In her not so humble opinion, the job she has is undeniably more exciting than what Amycus has to do—he's in charge of ensuring that those who have been denied permission to leave all stay put.

But despite getting to bully children, most of whom are dirty Half-bloods and blood traitors, the rest of the day goes terribly for Alecto.

* * *

x

* * *

Lunch with the people remaining at Hogwarts drags on, with Amycus continually complaining about how salty the food is and how he'd like to behead the house-elves, every time he nibbles at a morsel.

At one point, Snape snaps and says in that monotone of his, "I believe that only the Headmaster has the power to behead the house-elves, and at this point, the food is fine. The Dark Lord would be displeased to know you whine so much."

That, of course, makes Alecto crack up, and in return, Amycus just throws her a murderous glare from the other end of the table.

When she exits the Great Hall, in the corridor right outside, Peeves, the pesky creature, relentlessly unloads buckets of Hippogriff manure upon her unsuspecting form, and then cackles at her, saying she must be used to it, because she's nothing more than a _bag o' shite_.

In a flash of fury, she whips out her wand to cast a hex that would embowel the bellend, but Peeves is faster than her, and disappears after snapping his fingers.

It's all the more embarrassing because the entire thing happens right outside the Great Hall doors, and it's obvious that everyone there saw the entire spectacle. In fact, Alecto's pretty sure that Sprout, the fat cow, laughed at her predicament, and so she whirls around to cast a nice _Crucio_ on the tart, but Snape glares at her warningly, and she needs to let it go.

She's forced to swallow her pride and walk away (metaphorically) when she realises that quite a bit of the animal excrement has gotten into her mouth from when she tried to curse the Herbology teacher.

Disgusted by the rancid taste and smell, Alecto takes a moment to glare at the rat-like children who are busy trying to act like they're unamused, before stalking away from the Great Hall in a huff.

The entire time back to her quarters, as she continuously casts refreshing charms under her nose, she mentally composes a list of people to take revenge on, and the first entry in it is Pomona Sprout.

* * *

x

* * *

An hour later, Alecto finds herself relaxing in one of the large tubs of perfumed warm water in the Prefects' Bathroom. Her own private bathroom isn't quite as comfortable as this one, and Alecto decides that maybe this is Mother Magic's way of compensating for the bollocks day she's been having so far.

When she'd finally climbed thirty flights of stairs to get to her room, she'd found that the portrait which guarded her door had been replaced by a blank canvas. Yelling for twenty minutes straight had brought the wheezing and arthritic manservant to her aid, and he had been the one to suggest that she use the Prefect's Bathroom. In fact, much to her delight, he'd said that it was hardworking people like her that truly deserved such a bathroom, and that had inflated Alecto's ego just a little bit.

Allowing the tub to drain and fill up once again with fresh warm water, she opens the purple vial she'd found in one of the cabinets, and pours the liquid inside. The label on the vial had proclaimed it to be a sparkling bubble bath, and that excites Alecto, because ever since she was a child, she's liked bubbles.

Smiling as the bubbles pop around her, Alecto holds her breath and bends forward so that her head too is submerged in the water. Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she scrubs vigorously at her face—even though she'd gotten the putrid substance off her body, she still feels filthy. _Maybe this is how Mudbloods feel everyday_ , is the stunning epiphany that she comes to.

Feeling radiant with that thought, she sits up straight in the tub, smiling benignly, and opens her eyes.

At first, she doesn't notice the coppery strands shimmering in the water. Not entirely sure what those could be, she runs a hand through her tresses to sort out the tangles. She stops midway, when she doesn't feel the gentle tugs her scalp is supposed to be feeling. When she brings her hand forward, she chokes on air.

Clumps of her hair, tangled with her fingers, lie on her palm, and as she looks around, she finds that the tub's surface has long beautiful tendrils floating inanimately.

It gets harder to breathe, but when the oxygen finally hits her lungs, she starts shrieking like a banshee.

* * *

x

* * *

Irma doesn't bother to knock on the door. She throws it open, and that kills the conversation that's going on inside. Closing the door gently, she turns to regard the few teachers who had been deemed flight risks by the Death Eaters, a glint in her eyes.

"I know," she says deliberately, and Filius chokes over his glass of Firewhisky—they all have drinks in their hands; it's obvious they're celebrating.

"I don't know–" starts Slughorn, but Irma cuts him off.

"I knew something was going on when Argus asked me for books on art restoration practices. I'm not criticising what you did; I just want to know how. The elephants that the female Carrow was raving about at lunch—it has something to do with you lot, doesn't it?"

Pomona looks around at her colleagues, before shrugging as if to say what the hell.

"Yes," she says, smiling proudly, gesturing for Irma to sit down, which the librarian does. "That was us. Filius charmed the clock Albus gifted Charity for her sixtieth birthday to wake that vile woman up."

Irma looks at the Charms professor, and finds him sporting a smug look.

"And her being bald? I saw her howling into her brother's arms as they went to find Snape."

"That was all me—I mixed a hair removal potion with a bottle of bubble bath and left it where she would find it," says Horace, and the picture starts becoming clearer.

"And to make sure she had a bath, you had Peeves dump the greenhouse manure on her. Sh-she didn't use her own bathroom, did she? You lot had Argus use paint remover on her portrait door! And if she used a bathroom students use, you could always say she took someone else's bottle by mistake! This is genius!"

There's an air of victory in the room, and Irma can't help but smile with them.

"Why didn't you do this to her brother? He's just as bad."

Filius squeals and replies, "I believe we got a head start on that; didn't we, Minerva?"

Irma furrows her eyebrows and says slowly, "The salt?"

"I transfigured cutlery to look like metal but taste of rock-salt, but it went to the wrong Carrow; I guess _Pomona_ wasn't clear enough to the elves," says the Transfiguration teacher acerbically, and Pomona scoffs.

"I was more concerned about getting Peeves to work with us and not go tattling, but I guess even that rascal knows when to step up and help Hogwarts," she says, and Slughorn nods his head serenely.

"All's well that ends well," he adds.

Irma grins at them conspiratorially and states, "You know, the only way I don't go tattling on you is if you include me—so, what's the plan for tomorrow?"

* * *

x

* * *

 **End notes:**

In the movies, Alecto had auburn hair, so I stuck to that. The hair thing was inspired by "Nair cocktails" which were pretty popular in a particular teenage drama show. And the Pince/Filch thing was something Harry picked on in HBP; I just used that. ;)

* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Three

 **Word Count:** 1924 (according to Word)

 **Prompt:** Home Alone

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United


	4. Bound

**Title** : Bound

 **Summary** : What motivates a sacrifice? Love, or obligation?

 **Characters** : The Longbottoms: Neville, Frank, Alice, Augusta and Algie; Their house-elf (OC)

 **Written For** : Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Six

 **Prompt** : Write about Neville Longbottom.

 **Betas** : magrud, cosmic . force

 **Disclaimer** : JKR owns HP&co.

 **Warnings** : Second person narration. I know many people don't like it, that's why I've put it up here.

* * *

.

 **Bound**

 _(Or the one where Neville is just a child.)_

.

* * *

You're bound to him even before he's born.

Master Frank calls you to his study the day before Mistress Alice is due and says, "You'll have a new master soon. And these times … these times are dark. I want you to protect my son above everything else. I _need_ you to protect him. Will you do that for me?"

It's not like you have the option of saying no, but it's not like you've ever denied Master Frank. You respect him too much to even think of not acquiescing to his wishes. You know that not many Purebloods have the habit of framing their demands as requests, and that's why you are all the more willing to serve him.

You promise him that you'll do your duty.

x

You're there _when_ he's born, standing by as the midwife cleans the writhing pink ball. The midwife isn't very gentle or careful, but it's not your place to point that out.

So you dutifully hover around her, staying inconspicuous, so that in case she drops the young master, you're there to catch him.

She loosely wraps him up in a towel and leaves him in the newly built crib, before going to tend to Mistress Alice who lies in her bed, fatigued with childbirth.

A cool breeze blows through the window.

Through the bars of the crib, you see the towel rearrange itself; wrap itself tighter around the baby. For a moment, it looks like the young master is smiling.

You stand still, captivated by this human infant who exhibits strong signs of magic. He'll be a powerful wizard someday, you think. In the four generations you've served the Longbottom family, this is the first time you've seen such a quick display of magic.

He'll go places someday, you decide.

x

A few weeks later, after long debates and arguments, Master and Mistress decide upon a name.

Your new master's name is Neville.

x

You stay around the infant all the time, keeping an eye on him every five minutes even as you do your household chores. Mistress has gone back to her Auror duties, saying she has to make the world a safer place for her child.

You think you're blessed to serve such noble people. It's not that the three Longbottom couples you served before them weren't noble in their own way, it's just that Master Frank and Mistress Alice are the epitome of nobility.

And young Master Neville is quite noble too, you think. In the six months since his birth, he hasn't thrown a fit once. He drinks his milk and sleeps peacefully; he smiles gummily at invisible things and is a generally cheerful infant.

He's more well-behaved than Master Frank was as an infant.

When he raises his fist and holds your wrinkled finger in it, transferring his pure and innocent magic into your weary and depleted core, your emotions swell with something akin to love for your human. He wins over your withered and cynical heart.

x

It's summer once again, and before you know it, your youngest master's first name day is upon you.

The entire family descends upon the manor, and house-elves from other homes enter your kitchens to help you out. You say you don't need their help, but some of these young ones are impertinent, calling you a grumpy codger behind your back.

You get back at them by making them clean the chimneys, most of which haven't been cleaned in decades.

...

A few hours later, you find your old Master Algie in the nursery, prodding the toddler harshly in an attempt to elicit a magical response. Your fingers curl into your fist as you try to control your anger.

When he catches you standing outside, he calls out cheerfully, "Rana, you old chap! Get me a bottle of Ogden's, would you? A bottle of Blishen's should work too."

You're tempted to spit in his drink before you fetch it for him, but your elven magic forbids you from doing it.

So instead, you go drop a word into Mistress Augusta's ear, watching with grim satisfaction as the powerful witch puts the drunk wizard in his place.

...

You pop back upstairs to see if Master Neville is comfortable, and you find him sitting uncomfortably in his crib. Shaking your head, you levitate him to the adjoining bathroom, so that you can change his nappy.

"Nana!" he shrieks when you start lowering him onto the marble counter. "Up, up-up-up-up!"

Maybe he'll be a Quidditch player, you think, as you pinch his cheeks. He grins at you toothily in response.

x

Life as you know it, filled with hours of listening to cherubic laughs and the pitter-patter of tiny feet, comes to a grinding halt when Master Frank and Mistress Alice come home from one of their 'Order' meetings.

They say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is hunting down children born towards the end of July. They say he's managed to narrow it down to the Potters and the Longbottoms.

They talk of a prophecy and a saviour.

And suddenly, it all makes sense, the reason why your young master is radiant with magic—he's meant to change the outcome of this terrible war that the human magic-bearers have started. Your young master is to save the world, even if he's just a child.

The prospect fills you with dread, and all you can think of is what you promised Master Frank last year, on that sweltering summer day.

There's also an undeniable tinge of pride, because you know your young master is the one who'll bring You-Know-Who down.

And it's _your_ duty to guard the saviour.

x

You move with the Longbottom family to a cottage by the Cornish coast. The interiors are as sparse as the exteriors, but it's the best they can find at the moment.

You help them cast protective enchantments around the house, weaving in your elven magic with their warding spells.

You also put your century old limbs into work, trying to make this shack more than just hospitable; the saviour of the world needs a bright home, no matter how dreary things are on the outside.

x

Things have changed in the past week. Both your lord and your lady now stay at home all day, taking turns to stay by Master Neville at night. You volunteer to do the same, but Mistress Alice turns you down, gentle as ever.

"Frank and I have nothing else to do, Rana. This is the only thing keeping us sane."

You don't say anything, but your lady does sense your disappointment, because she pats you gently on the shoulder.

"You're already doing so much for us, you don't have to do more."

You nod and leave the room, trying not to let your emotions rule you.

x

Samhain is celebrated without much pomp or splendour. For the first time in living memory, the festivities are restricted to a few candles under the elder tree in the backyard.

Master Frank explains that it's because it's better to stay under the radar and not be detected by the Death Eaters.

"We'll have a huge bonfire as always if things are better next year," he says.

You have the oddest feeling that you'll never get to see another Samhain celebration, but you attribute that thought to the paranoia that you've all been living under.

Once the family settles down onto the picnic blanket, you resume your duties.

You carefully pour out two goblets of pumpkin juice, and serve them to your lord and your lady. Master Neville tries to grab the goblet from where he's nestled in his mother's arms, and so you rush to him with his sippy-cup.

You stand a little away, not knowing that you're watching the family enjoy what will be their last Halloween together.

x

You're so dissociated from the outside world that it takes a few days for the message to reach you, but when it does, you can't help but feel short-changed.

Master Frank announces that Master Neville is not the saviour, that it's the Potters' child.

All you can hear though is that You-Know-Who is now dead, and that it's not because of your human.

You can't understand why some other child would be chosen over your Neville, but in a way, you suppose it's cause for celebration; this means there's no mad man out there with a target on your ward's head.

When the realisation strikes you that you no longer have to worry for your master's life and that everyone can resume their normal lives, you hurry to the scullery where you keep your personal effects and start packing them.

It's obvious that you'll all be returning home soon.

x

It only takes you a few days to make the mansion respectable again. Personally though, you feel the entire place needs a complete and through dusting.

It's when you're in the kitchen, trying to make the pots and pans shine the way they used to, that you hear a blood-curdling scream from the living room. You drop the saucepan you're scrubbing and run.

You watch from behind the bannister, frozen with fear. Master Frank is restrained, hanging from the ceiling, while Mistress Alice lies writhing on the floor, screaming. Four people with strange masks and robes stand with their wands out, laughing at your Mistress' plight.

Anger lashes through you and you raise your hand to kill them all, when your Master, upside down, catches your eye.

" _Neville_ ," he mouths, and you understand immediately.

Knowing that the crack of Apparation would draw undue attention, you climb up the stairs posthaste, fear overriding your arthritic knees.

Master Neville is playing with his blocks when you open the nursery door. He looks up and smiles, calling out, "Nana! Pway!"

You don't have time to be patient. You grab his hand roughly and try to Apparate.

You try once again, to find that you're blocked. There's something preventing you from leaving the premises, holding you down invisibly.

Undaunted, you pull your master by the hand and rush to the study, where you know there's an active Floo connection. It's the first time ever that you've handled him so roughly, and it's clear that he doesn't expect it of you; he looks confused.

As you near the door to the study, Master Frank screams, his voice echoing through the house. You wish to go and help him, but then you remember your promise and continue pulling the toddler along.

Maybe using your magic to throw open the door wasn't such a great idea, because you hear a high pitched voice say, "Roddy, I think someone's there upstairs."

There are logs in the grate but no fire, so you try to start one single-handedly, while holding Neville tightly by the wrist.

"Nana?" he says uncertainly, sniffling, as you stoke the tiny fire that you've started. It needs to be much bigger for you to get your human out of here.

The ring of footsteps from down the corridor become louder, and you start panicking. Clumsily, you summon the bowl of Floo powder from the mantelpiece and direct it to land onto the flames.

A green explosion of heat hits you in the face, and you push Master Neville into the leaping flames.

"Look what we have here," comes a voice from somewhere behind you, and you don't need to turn around to know that the man's probably just entered the room.

"I guess it's true, rats do leave a sinking ship, heh?" he asks rhetorically, and all you can do is be thankful that he hasn't noticed that your master is here too.

Your young master is frightened, understandably so, and he holds onto you dearly with both his hands. Though it pains you, you forcefully unclench his fists from your pillowcase-shirt, and push him deeper into the fireplace.

"Look at me house-elf," he cries, and you choose to ignore him, instead drawing a deep breath.

"AVADA—"

"LONGBOTTOM HOUSEHOLD, BLACKPOOL," you bellow into the flames that lick your face, just as the man behind you finishes his spell.

"KEDAVRA!"

A sharp pain hits you in the small of your back, and then your vision fades.

x

There's no sense of time in this place of eternal sunshine and happiness. You wander through the fields, enjoying the landscape and the bountiful fruits that grow on trees.

Every once in a while, you come across others creatures, and whenever you do, you exchange stories with them.

Here, it doesn't matter what species you belong to, or whether you're magical or not. There's no language barrier here, and you find that no one makes fun of your 'broken English'—you're just as eloquent as everyone else here.

Today, you run into a woman who's eating berries on the banks of a winding river, her hair the same colour of sand that your old master's had been.

She introduces herself as Alice Longbottom, and you smile.

* * *

End notes:

In an interview, JKR mentioned that Neville's first act of magic was merely minutes after he was born, and that it went unwitnessed. And so the thought popped into my head–what if someone did see the incident, but didn't live to tell the tale? The incident described is technically canonical; Neville really was powerful before he went to live with his grandmother.

Regarding the style of narration, I'm currently reading a book named Hold by Michael Donkor, and someone who reviewed the book said that it makes no sense that the narrator can have eloquent thoughts but not speak good English. I think that's rubbish, because thoughts are not restricted to any particular language; they're sentiment and perception. If I'm say, French, can't I think eloquently in French and still speak broken English if I haven't been taught English at school?

(Also, i suppose old people think more quaintly than a teenager? Hence the weird tone to Rana's thoughts.)

And lastly, Rana means frog-like. :D

* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Six

 **Word Count:** 2172

 **Prompt:** Write about Neville Longbottom.

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United

* * *

Life update: I'm not _back_ back, but I might be updating either Consentient or Noteworthy Boredom this month, just saying.


	5. Envy

**Title:** Envy

 **Summary:** Katie finds that green doesn't suit her all too well.

 **Characters:** Katie Bell, Cormac McLaggen, Randolph Spudmore (whom I've taken as Katie's maternal uncle), Hermione Granger, and Ginny Weasley.

 **Pairings:** Katie/Cormac, on-and-off; Daphne/Ginny, blink and you'll miss it.

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Seven

 **Prompt:** Movies That Killed Their Franchises—Green Lantern. (The Katie/Cormac relationship is based on the Carol/Hal relationship from Green Lantern.)

 **Betas:** magrud, desertredwolf

 **Disclaimer:** JKR owns HP&co.

 **Warnings:** Some strong language, hence the T.

* * *

.

 **Envy**

(Or the one where green doesn't suit Katie all that well.)

.

* * *

"He's late," says one of the engineers, and Katie can't help but agree. Cormac is late, yet again.

The demo for the new Firebolt X should have started an hour back, and as the Ministry officials pace about restlessly, tired of waiting. If the testing goes poorly, Firebolt Inc. will lose out on the contract, and Katie feels sick. The company hasn't been doing well for the past year, and they're accountable to the shareholders.

"Maybe we should use one of the reserve flyers? Or maybe you can just do it alone?" whispers one of Katie's uncle's secretaries, as he nervously pushes his glasses up his nose.

"I wish we could, but McLaggen's the only other one who practised how to demonstrate the defensive mechanisms while flying. The demonstration is a two people job, and I can't teach another person the routine in five minutes."

The secretary pulls out a large handkerchief and mops his head, and says, "Your uncle won't be pleased," he mutters.

"I know," Katie says resignedly, wondering if there'd be any point in sending Cormac yet another Patronus message.

x

Three hours later, Katie finds herself in her office, shouting herself hoarse.

"WHY COULDN'T YOU FUCKING STICK TO THE ROUTINE?" she yells at Cormac, who doesn't look apologetic in the least.

"Our routine was boring. I improvised it so that it would be loads more impressive. Stop being such a stick in the mud, Kate."

"Stick in the mud? _Stick in the mud?_ You almost lost us the bloody contract!"

"But the deal is still on. The Ministry is going to use our broom for the Defence Department, so will you chill?"

Katie's fingers curl into her palm, and she realises that punching Cormac's nose would be ideal right about now. Instead, she takes in a deep breath and tries to answer calmly, in vain.

"The deal is on only because I grovelled for an hour after you ruined the demonstration. You couldn't even turn up on time!"

"Darling, all's well that ends well," he says, grinning patronisingly.

However, Katie knows that it's not all going to end well, at least not for Cormac—because her uncle is standing right behind the git, his face impassive and his eyes twitching.

Uncle Randy's eyes twitch only when he's about to fire someone.

"Mr Spudmore," she greets her uncle formally, just to let Cormac know that all his smarmy statements have been heard by their company's head.

Just for a split second, Cormac's face falls, before he rearranges it into one of supreme confidence and turns around to acknowledge their boss.

"Could you give me and McLaggen a moment alone, Katie," Uncle says, and Katie nods her head, before leaving the room.

Katie knows that it's been years since she and Cormac ended their relationship, but somehow, she can't stop worrying about him.

x

 _'Katie,_

 _I'm sorry about today. I'll do better, promise. Apology drinks today at the Leaky? 10 pm?_

 _Yours,_

 _Cory'_

.

Katie crumples the parchment, and then smoothes it, before crumpling it again. She's been waiting for over forty minutes, and she's already downed two glasses of whiskey.

She shouldn't have turned up, she decides, as Neville Longbottom casts her yet another pitiful look from where he's standing by the bar. She also knows that she shouldn't be hung up over Cormac as much as she is—he's bad for the company, and he's bad for her.

Ten minutes later, she picks up her shoulder bag, tosses some coins onto the table, and walks out. She's tired, she's hurt, and she wants to go on a long vacation. The sad smile that she'd got from that Hufflepuff chick— _Hannah was it?_ —only served to make her feel more terrible.

Sighing, she steps out of the pub, and the crisp autumn air greets her, acting as a soothing balm against her spiralling thoughts. As the cool air stings her cheeks and she considers casting a warming spell, an unpleasant scent assaults her olfactory senses.

It takes her back to that day at Hogsmeade when she'd touched that blasted necklace, and her body freezes. Her vision starts blurring as panic sets in, and the only tangible thing at the moment is the Dark Magic.

She follows her nose and turns to find that at the mouth of Knockturn Alley, Cormac stands with his arms raised in an offensive stance. Around him, there are three hooded wizards lying unconscious on the ground, their ensembles resplendent with Death Eater insignia.

The gasp she takes is probably too loud, because Cormac turns in her direction, alarmed.

The relief on his face is obvious, as he realises it's only her and not another neo-Death-Eater. He starts to make his way to her, saying something, but she can't hear him over the ringing in her ears.

She isn't sure if she wants to.

Pulling out her wand, she Apparates home as quickly as she can, before she blacks out completely.

x

The next two weeks that go by are odd for Katie. Though she knows that Cormac's been suspended from the company for the time being, she finds it odd that he hasn't owled her or popped by her place as he is wont to do.

Though on a normal day she can't stand his badgering, she finds herself missing it. She finds herself missing his insistent demands that she quit her managerial role and take up a more active role in the experimentation department. She finds herself missing his unstoppable bragging. She finds herself missing his impromptu Swivenhodge games, and his unstoppable spirit.

She finds that she just misses him.

Everytime her letters return unopened and her Floo calls don't connect, the stone in the pit of her stomach becomes heavier, and she wonders if Cormac is all right.

x

Katie runs her hand through the satiny material of the robes, wondering if she should buy the sky blue dress for the upcoming Ministry event, when she hears voices from the other side of the aisle.

"I got a letter from Cormac McLaggen the other day, can you believe it?" says a shrill voice, and Katie moves the hangers to confirm her suspicion—it's Hermione _fucking_ Granger.

"That's the bloke you dragged to that Slug Club thing, right?" says another witch, and Katie doesn't have to look to know that it's Ginny Weasley.

"Yup, that's him, alright. I got the weirdest letter from him, too. He wanted to know if Egyptian amulets could be found in the middle of Scotland, and whether they have any superpowers."

"And what did you say?" prompts Ginny, snorting.

"Nothing. I didn't reply, but I did start reading up on Egyptian amulets. I reckon some fellow tried selling McLaggen a fake amulet, and he's just trying to get back his gold.

"Oh, by the way, did Ron tell you? Apparently, the Firebolt stocks are set to fall further this quarter. Rumour has it that they lost out on a huge deal thanks to McLaggen's attitude," continues Granger waspishly.

"I should probably tell Daph," Ginny replies, her voice flat. "She owns quite a bit of shares there."

Katie pushes back the hangers into place, trying to calm herself down. She can't understand why Cormac would write to Granger; she's never been able to understand why Cory spent so much time in Seventh Year being infatuated with the bushy haired witch—in Katie's opinion, Hermione Granger is not even _that_ pretty.

For an instant, Katie feels like she's back in Seventh Year, with Cho breaking the news gently to her in between aisles of books in the library—that in the time when Katie was in a coma, Cormac had gotten himself a new love interest.

It takes her a moment to reorient herself, and once she does, she finds that she's gripping the satin tightly, and lets go. She tries taking in deep breaths as the healer had taught her to do years back, counting backward from hundred slowly.

Once calm, Katie heads out of Madam Malkin's without making any purchases, shoving her anger and confusion to the deepest recesses of her brain.

x

Though Katie does not go to the Ministry event, she ends up reading all about it in the Daily Prophet. The blown up picture on the front page shows a masked man in emerald green robes defending Granger from a rogue spell.

Maybe it's because they've been friends since they were in their nappies, or maybe it's because she's spent colourful summers exploring his body—regardless, she knows that it's Cormac in that fancy suit, saving Granger from some unknown peril.

Something in her shrivels, and Katie crumples up the newspaper in disgust. There's a monster roaring in her, a monster as green as Cormac's robes.

x

 _'Kat,_

 _You're probably wondering where I've been. Don't worry, I've just been busy. I haven't forgotten about you, though._

 _Drinks at the Leaky at 6 tonight? I promise I'll be there on time._

 _Love,_

 _Cory'_

.

This time, Katie turns up ten minutes late, only to find that Cormac isn't there yet. She orders a gin and tonic and sips it slowly, all the while wondering if she's going to be stood up once again.

Just as she makes up her mind to settle the tab and leave, Cormac turns up in front of her, his hair tousled and his face flushed red. He wears a disarming smile, and Katie's stupid _stupid_ heart flutters.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting," he says, and Katie's surprised. Cormac's never _ever_ apologised for being tardy, and she thinks being suspended from the company and being a vigilante has possibly done her ex a world of good.

"I was just about to leave," she says frostily, putting in all the emotions he's made her feel over the past month into those six words.

"Don't be like that, Katie," he says, as he beckons for a waiter to come over and take their order. Once he's placed his standard order of a vodka martini, 'shaken not stirred'—something from some Muggle movie that Katie's never watched but heard all about from him—he continues, "I'm here to make amends.

"I know I've not been the best employee, and that I wasn't the greatest boyfriend when we were together, and I acknowledge that. I'm not asking you to forgive me or give me another chance, but I want you to know that I want to be a better person. I've learnt so much over the past month, and I want to—"

Katie cuts across before he can finish.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asks him curtly.

"Because you're my best friend, Kitty Kat. You have Cho, Alicia and Leanne, but you're the only friend I've ever had. And you're the only friend I want to have; the rest are just acquaintances anyway.

"The thing is, I've been a dick to you, and you've always been good to me. And if I want to become a better person, it's only for you, because you deserve so much better than someone who takes your presence in their life for granted," he says.

Katie doesn't know where all this is coming from. Hell, she can't help but feel that Cormac's been Imperiused. Or maybe this is an imposter under Polyjuice.

As if sensing her doubts, he takes her hands in his. His warm and calloused hands make her feel things she's long tried to suppress, and all the things she felt as a teenager start sputtering back to life.

She looks him in the eye to check if he's telling the truth, and finds that his eyes are as green as ever, and in the dim lighting, they seem to be deeper than usual.

Much against her will, her heart melts, just for the tiniest of seconds.

Blushing, she looks down at the table, where his hands enclose hers, and she notices the large clunky bronze thing attached to his left wrist.

"What's that?" she asks, distracted.

" _That_ is a very long story, and involves dragons and Egyptian priestesses, so I'll save it for another day. But today, this is what I want to give you."

He draws back his hands and takes out a blue and silver package from his robes, tied up prettily with a lacy white ribbon.

"You didn't think I'd forget, did you? Happy birthday, Katie," he says softly, pushing the package towards her.

"Thank you," she says demurely, pulling the parcel towards herself, her heart filling with pinpricks of hope.

For the first time in weeks, Katie smiles.

x

* * *

 **End note:** If you've watched Green Lantern, you'll know that the relationship here is almost the same as Carol's and Hal's. I've changed a few of the things I didn't like in the movie, like how Carol just got back together with Hal though he never apologised for being a twat, and how it seemed Carol could forgive everything Hal did just because he saved her. So I had Cormac save Hermione in this fic, and made Cormac apologise. I don't know if Katie gets back together with Cormac, so it's up to you.

P.S. Swivenhodge is a legit broomstick game in HP. (It's pretty weird, check it out on the wiki!) Also, is it Neo-Death Eaters, or Neo-Death-Eaters? :O

* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Seven

 **Word Count:** 2089

 **Prompt:** Green Lantern

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United


	6. Support Circle

**Title** : Support Circle

 **Summary** : Can sociopaths make friends? Dorcas experiments.

 **Characters** : Dorcas Meadowes (narrator), Lily Evans (addressee), other Marauder Era characters

 **Written For** : Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Nine

 **Prompt** : Write about Lily Evans.

 **Beta** : magrud

 **Disclaimer** : JKR owns HP&co.

 **Warnings:** Talk of racism

 **Foreword** : The narration style is inspired by _You_ by Caroline Kepnes, and the character of Dorcas Meadowes as a sociopath is partially inspired by Delia of Liz Nugent's _Skin Deep_. Further, the Potterverse Wikia shows Dorcas to be a POC, and I've remained true to that description. I hope I've done justice to what an eleven year old sociopath would think like. (Just a gentle reminder that sociopaths are different from psychopaths. Sherlock Holmes is an example of a literary sociopath.)

* * *

.

 **Support Circle**

 _(Or the one where Dorcas makes her first 'friend'.)_

.

* * *

It is at King's Cross Station that I first see you. You stand facing the train, away from me, and what catches my attention is that shimmering curtain of red that falls well past your shoulders down to the small of your back—I've never seen hair like that before. I've always wanted long, sleek hair.

I walk closer to you, lugging my trunk, not because I want to hear what you're telling that jaundiced looking boy, but because you're standing by the train door.

"I can't wait to start classes, I think I'll do well in Charms, what do you think?" you ask that sullen boy, and I decide that you're too self-assured for my liking. You're a born leader, and I can picture you as the head of a herd. Maybe that's why that boy clings to every word you say, like you're his oxygen. His body is positioned towards yours in a way that indicates that he doesn't want anyone else joining your conversation; he wants you all to himself.

I shake my head and try to stop thinking like my father—to him, everything around used to be one large science experiment—it probably still is, but I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him in two years.

I pause after pulling all my luggage onto the footboard of the train, and that's when I catch my first glimpse of your face. You're pretty, exceptionally so. Your skin is flushed and looks delicate, like my mum's white china. I know girls like you—you're the type of girl who has everything handed out to you. You have that air of entitlement; life has never been too harsh for you, has it?

My gut twists with what I recognise as jealousy, and I move away from the door, squeezing past various people who either ignore me or glare at me when I run my trunk over their feet. I probably shouldn't be antagonising the upperclassmen because any of them could be my future housemates, but the truth is, I don't care.

I enter the first empty compartment I can find, and pull out my tattered copy of the National Geographic Magazine #813, my throat constricting when I see the picture on it. It's a relic from the time when I had what resembled a family.

In an attempt to forget the fact that my own mother hadn't even bothered to see me off, I put my head out of the window to check if the engine driver has any intention of starting the locomotive.

And there you are, being hugged tightly by a woman with blonde hair, while an older man looks at you proudly. Of _course_ you have parents who care about you—you're probably the apple of their eyes.

I don't know your name, but I resent you already.

My only consolation is that the sallow-faced boy looks unhappy too.

x

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat calls out, and I breathe a sigh of relief, my stomach settling down finally. Nana would have disowned me if I'd gotten Sorted into Slytherin.

It's only as I near the table where polite applause is emanating from that I remember that you're in Gryffindor too. What's worse is that you've made space for me next to you, and you're smiling at me encouragingly, as if you want me to sit next to you.

I slow down as I near you, and then pretend to ignore you and move past you, but you call out in a shrill voice, "Dorcas! Dorcas Meadowes!"

I'm sorely tempted to pretend I can't hear you, but I unintentionally catch the eye of a Prefect sitting near the spot I'm headed towards, and I'm forced to backtrack a couple of steps and settle down next to you. Don't think I chose you; it's just that I detest authority figures more than I detest you.

"Lily Evans," you say, holding your hand out, and I reluctantly shake it, dropping it as soon as I can. I know what your name is already; I'd been paying attention to your Sorting. Your name is pretty, just like you. You don't have the curse of an unwieldy name, unlike me.

As if you can hear my thoughts, you continue speaking, "I like your name. Lilies are a dime a dozen, but Dorcas—it's unique. I've never heard a name like yours."

"It means gazelle," I tell you in what I hope is a clipped voice, but I guess I'm not very good at expressing my emotions as Nana said, because you grin. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch a mousy looking boy join the Gryffindor table further ahead.

I catch sight of that weird friend of yours waiting in line. He's not looking at the Sorting though; he's looking at you. He's looking at you like you're a train leaving the station, one that he was too late to catch, but unfortunate enough to see leave the platform. He catches me looking at him and glowers at me like he doesn't like my talking to you.

"Dorcas Meadowes—a gazelle on the meadows? Your parents are witty!" you exclaim, continuing to grin, bringing me back to our conversation. I don't tell you that it's only my dad who had a sense of humour; that my mum is a stick in the mud.

I have no idea how to take this small-talk forward, not that I'm particularly interested in doing so. It's just that Nana had specifically told me not to let people know right off the bat that I'm antisocial. Thankfully, I'm saved from replying by a bespectacled boy who comes to a stop right behind you and clears his throat.

"Move!" he barks at you, before proceeding to stand on top of the bench and and propel himself over the table. You watch, your mouth agape.

He fluidly sits down on the other side next to a boy whose hair is a curly bush, and they both laugh raucously. The bespectacled boy reminds me of the orangutans that I'd seen at the London Zoo with my dad.

"Heathens," I mutter under my breath, and I guess you hear me, because you look at me and nod your head agreeingly.

"You won't believe what Black and Potter did on the train," you say, and launch into a story about some incident which occurred on the train earlier today. I tune you out and turn my focus inwards—my stomach growls loudly, and I wonder if anyone else can hear it. Can you hear it?

You go on to talk about 'Sev', how he'd wanted you to join him in Slytherin, and how Black and Potter had insulted him. You glare at the two boys opposite us as you tell me all this. You probably want me to shake my head sympathetically, but the truth is, I don't care.

I'm grateful when the sallow-faced boy—whose surname I mishear as 'Snake'—takes the stage, because you _finally_ stop chattering incessantly and watch the Sorting with bated breath. It's such a relief to not hear your voice in my ear. Have you ever had mosquitoes buzz in you ear when you're out camping? Your voice is very similar to that.

The orangutan and his friend on the other side have gone quiet too. They're interested in your friend for some reason—they're watching keenly, probably more keenly than you are. When the hat announces that Snake is going to Slytherin, the curly-haired boy whom you've identified as Black snorts.

"Don't tell me you thought Snivellus would come here," he crows, while you throw a sad smile at the boy who is shuffling slowly toward the table with scant applause. He looks at you with his eyes wide and heartbroken, before his face turns grim. It looks like he's resigned himself to a life without you.

He's probably a Halfblood like me, I realise. That's why the Slytherins aren't being all that welcome. It's not like I feel sorry for the boy—because I'd never let myself rely on another person like they're the air that fills my lungs—but I do understand why he might have wanted company in that house.

Nevertheless, his obsession with you is unhealthy, and I wonder if you know that.

x

It's been a week since school started, and I've fallen into a routine. What's annoying is that you've tailored your routine to fit mine. There are three other girls whom we share our dorms with, but I guess one doesn't have to be a genius to figure out that they've known each other since they were in their nappies.

It doesn't bother me in the least, but it bothers you—you're clearly not used to people not paying much attention to you. Your parents write you daily even though they're Muggles, and I don't understand why you seek validation from others—you have two human beings devoted to your life.

I get ready for the day as quietly and as quickly as I can. Over the past few days, I've learnt that you're actually better than our other three dormmates. Their collective IQ isn't greater than that of a dodo's, and that's one of the many reasons why I want to get ready and get out before they even begin to stir from the land of Morpheus.

A casual survey of the room shows that you're out already. I'm glad you've stopped waiting for me every morning like a dog waiting to be walked by its master. Humming a melody, I hurriedly stuff my books into my bag and almost skip down to breakfast, elated at your absence.

The Great Hall isn't very crowded when I come in, so it's easy to spot you, with your hair as bright as wildfire. You sit with your shoulders hunched, your hand absently playing with a spoon that's in a bowl of porridge.

I head over to you out of curiosity, and you latch onto me as if I've thrown you a lifeline.

"The Slytherins drove me out," you say, when I look at you questioningly. You've learnt to read my facial cues in the little time you've known me, and I don't know if I should be pleased or bothered.

"From where?" I ask as I take a bite of the eggs.

"From their table. I just thought I'd have breakfast with Sev, you know? But they said there's no place for Mudbloods like me at their table."

I don't think you know what the word Mudblood means, but I do, and I feel sick. Dad had been a _Mudblood_ too. And he'd left us because Mum had called him that very same despicable word.

I feel sick.

"It's a derogatory word for people who are born to Muggles," I tell you, but you look confused. I've seen how adept you are at your assignments for someone who's new to the magical word, so I'm pretty sure you know what the word 'derogatory' means.

"Do you know what people in your world would call people like me?" I ask you, in an attempt to explain. I don't know how, but you've somehow made me more talkative than usual.

"A witch?"

I want to roll my eyes to let you know how far off base you are, but this is a serious issue and I refrain from doing so.

"I used to go to Muggle school," I tell you slowly, almost patiently. "During lunch, the other children wouldn't play with me because of the colour of my skin," I say in a level tone, and your eyes, as green as basil leaves, go wide.

I think you know where this is going.

"Mu-Mudblood is like the N-word?" you ask quietly, your voice a mere shadow of what it normally is.

I nod my head and you blanch—a very interesting biochemical reaction that one would never see in me, but that's neither here nor there. You look as sick as I feel.

"Oh," you say, before standing up and leaving in a hurry.

I don't follow you, but I do feel something akin to pity.

Your world of privilege is crashing down around you, and you're no longer a queen. You're just a peasant trudging through the vast and unpleasant tracts of life.

x

In the month that we've been at Hogwarts together, you've taken it upon yourself to tell me everything that's happening in your life. Sometimes, against my better judgement, my sensibility voices a few words, and you use that as fuel to talk more.

You say we're friends, but I think you just use me to feel a little less lonely when Snape-Snake isn't around. Potions is the only class we share with the Slytherins, and you're always so eager to spend an entire hour with that weirdo—he probably gets bullied for spending time with you, but I guess he's braver than he looks, because he hasn't caved in to his seniors yet.

You use me for company, just the way I use you to keep the other girls in our dorm at bay—they still don't like you much, and as long as you stick to me, they won't be pestering me any time soon.

You speak a lot of sense too, when you're not trying to be a social butterfly. Last week, when you'd managed to worm out of me that I was waiting for my father to say something— _anything_ —to just prove that he still cared about me, you'd said that sometimes family sucks, and that that's why it's up to us to pick out our own family of friends.

You'd then proceeded to tell me about your older sister, though I hadn't asked you about her.

However, it _is_ a novel concept, and I like the idea of choosing my own support circle. I wouldn't go as far as to say that we're friends, you and I, but I do think you are a valuable addition to my curated family.

A lot of studies and experiments have revealed seven to be the most magical number, and so I think I'll have seven members in my family. I have one down (you), so I guess I only need six more. Without you around, Potions class is the best time to vet my next candidate.

Lupin is a nice enough boy. He's quiet and polite, and seems to understand my liking for silence. He's a lot like me, though a little less socially inept, and he's always calm and tranquil, like he's a cloud floating in the summer sky. There's something odd about him, though, and I want to find out what that is.

He has light scars on his face—scars that he says are from a childhood sickness. He's very vague about it, and it's a mystery I want to solve. The other day, he picked up my blade before dropping it like he was burned, saying that he was allergic to certain metals like silver.

He's an interesting boy all right, and now that I've got you all pegged down and figured out, I need a new challenge to focus on.

I'm pretty sure you don't mind that I'm not paying as much attention to you anymore as I was wont to do, because you seem to think I have romantic feelings for the Lupin boy. If anyone has feelings for anyone, it's that Potter-Orangutan who follows you about and torments Snape-Snake in the process.

But I've started to not mind your usual jabberings, because you're decent otherwise. I don't despise you, now that you no longer walk through life like you're nobility, untouchable by grime.

You're an itch that I've grown to like.

So as long as you don't do anything alarmingly stupid like reciprocate that Potter-Orangutan's feelings ( _bleugh_ , just talking about it makes me sick), or become _friends_ with any of the other girls from our year, I think you and I will get along fine.

It's up to you to not mess this up, Lily.

Okay?

Okay.

* * *

 **End Notes:**

According to cannon, Dorcas Meadowes was personally killed by Voldemort around 1981. What I'm theorising is that Lily considered Dorcas her best friend, and that Voldemort hunted down Dorcas to find out where the Potters lived.

General trivia, the NatGeo magazine cover for issue #813 has a picture of gazelles playing in a field. ;)

Also, that last bit is _not_ a reference to TFIOS. Okay? Okay.

* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Nine

 **Word Count:** 2651

 **Prompt:** Write about Lily Evans.

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United


	7. Change

**Title** : Change

 **Summary** : There is nothing permanent in life except change.

 **Characters** : Dudley Dursley, Cho Chang, Minor OCs

 **Written For** : Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Ten

 **Prompt** : Write about a character winning the lottery and changing their identity because of it.

 **Beta** : magrud (you sit up way too much for me. ily.)

 **Disclaimer** : JKR owns HP&co.

 **Trigger Warnings:** Fat shaming, Mentions of miscarriage.

 **General Warning:** This story features femHarry, but it's mentioned only in the passing. Gender-bending ftw.

* * *

.

 **Change**

 _(Or the one where there's light at the end of the tunnel.)_

.

* * *

Judgemental looks followed him wherever he went.

Dudley knew he wasn't exactly an Adonis when it came to his physique, but that didn't warrant the morbid curiosity that he attracted whenever he simply walked into a coffee shop to get a cup of joe.

"One large coffee, black. And two glazed donuts."

"Are you sure, sir?" asked the young woman behind the till, her eyes focused on his rather ample belly. She was looking at him like he was a circus freak.

"Yes, I'm sure," he told her firmly, even though the older man standing behind him in the queue tutted in disgust. As the barista scrambled to put his order together, the man behind commented nonchalantly, "Such a sad thing, how some people have no self control."

Dudley tried not to let that get to him. All the fakely cheery self-help books preached that it wasn't what you were on the outside that mattered, it was who you were on the inside, but obviously, the writers had never met Dudley.

The truth was, Dudley didn't like who he was on the inside either. It had taken him fifteen years to realise that he was nothing more than a schoolyard bully, unimportant to his seniors and unlikeable to his peers.

"Here you go, sir," the female said, eyeing him as she kept a closed styrofoam cup of coffee and a brown bag with donuts on the counter.

Dudley looked at the bill and made a show of taking out the exact number of notes and coins he needed from his wallet. He deliberately glanced at the tip jar and then at her, till she got the message. Her face flushed with colour, she gritted out unpleasantly, "Have a nice day."

Picking up his order leisurely, Dudley stepped back and brought his foot down hard on the other man's. As he began to howl with pain, Dudley hurried out of the coffee shop. Just because he was fat didn't mean he was an imbecile. He wasn't going to stick around and wait for the man to hurl abuse at him.

The crisp autumn air hit his face as he walked down the road sipping coffee. As he paused by a parking meter, he saw a young boy of not more than ten gorging on an ice-cream cone. He had a look of utmost concentration on his face, like that cone was his lifeline. It came as no surprise to Dudley that the boy was plump, rotund in figure.

For a moment, Dudley was transported back to his late teen years. Back then, every time he gave up on the latest diet his mum put him on, he'd binge on Tyrells Crisps and down cans of Cola till he felt the need to throw up. He'd probably had an expression similar to what this boy here wore.

Self control had never been Dudley's forte. The old man in the shop, though a judgemental arse, had been right.

Had there ever been a time when he didn't physically resemble a pig?

Feeling sick, Dudley threw his bag of uneaten donuts into a nearby bin.

x

These days, whispers followed her wherever she went.

In the beginning, it had been a very different kind of whispering. Cho had won the Daily Prophet lottery last month, and people at work had congratulated her, often with smiles on their faces and envy in their eyes. People whom she hadn't spoken to in years had written to her, apologising for falling out of touch. Relatives who were in debt came crawling out of the woodwork. But that was all right.

Cho had been in _demand_.

And then that horrid article had come out, and everything had changed. Her personal life and the follies of her youth had been laid bare, and now, the whispers were of a different tenor.

Today was no different, Cho realised, as she ducked behind the shelf with canned octopus eyes, desperate to escape all the wagging tongues.

"Remember that Diggory boy who died in the Triwizard thing in '94? I read that she was his girlfriend. Was even pregnant with his kid, it seems."

"The Diggories have a grandchild?"

"Nah, would have been a blessing too. She lost the baby when that boy died. Hasn't been right in her head since, I read. That's why she acted out, going all crazy," said the first voice, her tone faux-sympathetic.

"Poor thing," said the second voice, as the two women talking about her moved to a different aisle.

Cho clenched her fist and unclenched it, breathing in deeply and counting to ten. The pain still assaulted her—phantom stabs in her womb—whenever she thought of the miscarriage. Ever since Skeeter had written an article about her 'troubled teen years', she'd come under constant scrutiny. People either looked at her with pity because she'd lost a baby, or they no longer wanted to be her patient at St Mungo's, because of what Skeeter had dubbed her more 'violent proclivities'.

Somehow, after all these years, that nosy reporter had found out that Cho had been the one to break Potter's nose at Cedric's funeral, 'permanently disfiguring' their saviour's nose. True, Cho should not have resorted to physical violence, but she'd been distraught. She'd lost the love of her life, and at the time, it had seemed Potter's fault.

But it wasn't Cho's fault that the Girl-Who-Lived-To-Conquer had been too proud to get her nose fixed before it started healing at a slightly crooked angle. And it definitely wasn't Cho's fault that in the decade and a half since the incident, Potter hadn't bothered to correct it with magical cosmetic surgery—it wasn't like she didn't have the money. Between her ancestral wealth and her partner's vaults, the Potter-Malfoy family could have bought out the entire Ministry.

She was tired of all the hate-mail that she was receiving from Potter's fans.

Sighing, Cho checked if the coast was clear before making her way to the front of the shop, ready to make her purchase. As she neared the counter, she noticed that the cashier was engrossed in a copy of Witch Weekly.

It was with a sinking feeling that Cho recognised her own face staring out at her from the cover—it was a photo from her Fifth Year; there were O.W.L level books scattered across her lap, as she leaned lazily against a sycamore tree on Hogwarts grounds.

"DOES SHE DESERVE HER NEW FORTUNE?" read the caption under it, and Cho no longer felt comfortable in the shop. She wanted to go home.

She hastily placed her basket of groceries on the floor and cast a Notice-Me-Not spell on her face. With slow and quiet steps, she backed away from the counter and walked out of the stuffy shop, her pace brisk till she merged with the throng on the road.

It was only when she neared Knockturn Alley that she stopped walking. Panting, she leaned against the side of a dilapidated building to catch her breath. As she leaned against the wall and let the cool breeze calm her, a faded poster on the other side, with peeling gold lettering, caught her eye.

 _'If you don't like the lif_ e _you have, you can change it_. _Let us help you.'_

There was an address on it in much smaller font, and Cho strained her eyes to read it. She crossed the road to take a better look. The light from the lamp wasn't sufficient, but a quick Lumos fixed that problem.

After five minutes of trying and failing to memorise the address, Cho pulled out a Self-Inking Quill and wrote it down on her left palm.

Tomorrow, she decided, she'd write to these people and find out what they meant.

It was high time she moved away from this toxic community.

x

A year had gone by since Dudley had made the decision to get a gastric bypass done. The surgery had not been covered by his company's insurance policy, but by working two extra jobs and leading a severely austere life for the past few months, he'd managed to save up the required amount.

His parents hadn't been too keen about his idea when he'd told them, and in fact, they still weren't. Ever since he'd gotten them a broadband connection, Mum had taken to Googling every little thing she heard of. She'd been influenced by blogs and other news articles, and had managed to convince Dad that Dudley was killing himself. There wasn't a day when she didn't call up to tell him how this kind of surgery always ended in death.

Piers, his best mate from kindergarten, on the other hand, was convinced that Dudley had lost his mind. "Wouldn't liposuction be cheaper if you just want to lose your weight?" he'd asked, stunned by how expensive the surgery was.

But Dudley didn't want temporary fixes. He wanted a permanent solution that would help him get his life on track.

"Well Mr Dursley, your surgery has been scheduled for the fourth of May. You'll have to pay the remaining 25 percent on the day of your discharge, is that clear?"

Dudley nodded.

The other man continued speaking, as imperiously as before.

"It's been mandated by the health department that those wishing to undergo bariatric surgery must undergo ten sessions of counselling, sessions spaced no more than two weeks apart. Each session needs to be at least one hour long. So that's a minimum of ten hours, in total.

"We extend this policy to gastric bypass patients as well, so I'll have the receptionist call you and fix the dates for the in-house counselling sessions by next Monday. Is that fine?"

Dudley nodded again.

That was how appointments with Dr Sloane went. He'd talk, talk, and talk, and then talk some more. When he spoke, one wouldn't be able to get a word in edgewise—something that Dudley had learnt in his first appointment a couple of weeks back. The patient could ask questions only when Dr Sloane asked if the patient had questions.

Personally, Dudley found the man's bedside manner severely lacking.

"I believe you can see yourself out? Stop by the reception desk before leaving," he instructed, and Dudley nodded again—he didn't have to be asked twice.

Had Dr Sloane not been one of the most reputed surgeons in London, Dudley might have sought a different doctor.

As Dudley made his way down the corridor, a black haired woman in a white coat ran into him head first as she turned blindly around a corner, dropping the stack of files she'd been carrying.

"Oh my Mer—God, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, as she bent to retrieve her files. Dudley bent to pick them up too, and she didn't say anything, focussing on arranging the sheets of paper that had come loose.

It was nice, Dudley realised, to not be treated like an invalid. Usually when he dropped things, others would pick them up for him, asking him not to strain himself.

This woman, it seemed, was different. It was as if she hadn't noticed that he was obese.

He straightened up at the same time as her, and when he handed the files to her, she smiled brightly at him. Her markedly Chinese features were attractive, and Dudley swallowed loudly.

"Thank you," she said softly, patting his arm gently before stepping to the side. In a few seconds, she was gone, but not before Dudley had taken a good look at her name tag.

The future didn't seem bleak anymore, Dudley realised, as he resumed walking down the corridor, towards the reception. The earlier tiredness he'd felt was now gone, and his thoughts revolved around how pretty, yet kind, Dr Zhāng was. He felt buzzed.

This was a good omen, Dudley decided, his gait more lively than usual. There was this feeling in his bones that things would only get better from now on.

* * *

 **End Notes:**

1\. JKR said that Cho ends up marrying a Muggle, and in my HC, it's Dudley.

2\. Zhāng is the Pinyin spelling for Chang.

3\. I always thought it was Tyrell's Crisps — turns out it's Tyrells, and the leaf on top of the S is not an apostrophe. My life is a lie.

* * *

 **Written For:** Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Season Six, Round Ten

 **Word Count:** 1991

 **Prompt:** Write about a character who wins the lottery and change some their identity because of it.

 **Position:** Seeker, Puddlemere United


End file.
